that has but a groat in his pocket may have a stomach capable of a
ten shilling ordinary.

JERE. Nay, that's as clear as the sun; I'll make oath of it before
any justice in Middlesex.

SIR SAMP. Here's a cormorant too. 'S'heart this fellow was not
born with you? I did not beget him, did I?

JERE. By the provision that's made for me, you might have begot me
too. Nay, and to tell your worship another truth, I believe you
did, for I find I was born with those same whoreson appetites too,
that my master speaks of.

SIR SAMP. Why, look you there, now. I'll maintain it, that by the
rule of right reason, this fellow ought to have been born without a
palate. 'S'heart, what should he do with a distinguishing taste? I
warrant now he'd rather eat a pheasant, than a piece of poor John;
and smell, now, why I warrant he can smell, and loves perfumes above
a stink. Why there's it; and music, don't you love music,
scoundrel?

JERE. Yes; I have a reasonable good ear, sir, as to jigs and
country dances, and the like; I don't much matter your solos or
sonatas, they give me the spleen.

SIR SAMP. The spleen, ha, ha, ha; a pox confound you--solos or
sonatas? 'Oons, whose son are you? How were you engendered,
muckworm?